


Meeting At Infinity

by amyfortuna



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Endgame, Gods, M/M, Soul Bond, Supernatural Elements, Swordplay, saga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-01
Updated: 2004-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos and Duncan were bonded from before time began. But can they come together in the world of mortals and enter into their true destiny?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting At Infinity

**Author's Note:**

> This story is partially inspired by Dayspring's beautiful tale of "The Mottled King." Familiarity with HL canon, especially the Methos eps (I talk *around* them a lot, don't repeat them except where extremely important) and Endgame, is a good thing. This story uses the theater ending of Endgame (Kate gets whacked). The title is from Oysterband's wonderful song "In Your Eyes," which is, IMO, perfect for D/M.

All were fair spirits. Some were brighter than others. Some lay with heads in each other’s laps, some danced along the ever-flowing streams of that mysterious realm known as the spiritual, some pondered the ways of mortals and wondered why they did such foolish things as eat the forbidden fruit and forgo their paradise.

And as She looked down upon these spirits, She conceived a Game, a great Game. The Universe grew weary, carried in one hand alone. And She knew not the ways of mortals, any more than they.

“Spirits,” She whispered out into the farthest reaches of the universe, and drew them to Her.

They came. Some shy, hands clasped in a friend’s. Some bold, with laughter and dance. Some with a mere quiet glance that spoke of true devotion. Some with flashes of rebellion in their eyes. But they all came, and circled around Her, silent.

“What is it, Lord?” one, bolder than the rest, dared to ask.

She looked down upon them with love in her eyes.

“You are my creations,” She said, “and I would have you be more. I would that you were also my aides.”

“We are ready to do Your will,” one said, tossing dark tresses behind his shoulder, and placing a hand to his side, as if to draw out a sword.

“What did you have in mind?” That was the voice of the dearest of Her creations, with eyes of air and fire, quick and lovely in both mind and body. The two who had spoken stood together, for they were bondmates, consecrated to each other in the courts of heaven itself. Long before Time began (and Time mattered not in these halls) the two of them had found each other and sworn to be together, ever enjoying each the pleasures of the other until the worlds shattered and Time went back to the hollow void that had created it.

And She spoke, watching the faces of Her beloved ones. “I have considered a Game,” She said. “We know not the ways of mortals, and I know not how to rule them.”

The spirits bowed their heads as one, acknowledging the truth of this. “I would have you go among them, like unto them, but not of them, and observe their ways. You shall watch them, love them, know them, and be even as one of them, except that you may not die nor have children like them. You shall be Immortals.”

The newly christened Immortals raised their heads in interest.

She went on. “This Game shall be played among you, with earthly weapons called swords. Whoever remains standing shall be the victor. When all save one have returned to me, I shall appoint the Winner ruler over the world of mortals.”

A hum of interest broke out among the Immortals as each turned to his neighbor. The beloved one said to his companion, “Does that mean we must fight? Studying mortals sounds fascinating, sword fighting boring.”

The dark-haired spirit laughed. “Keep your books and study, my loved one. Sword fighting appeals to me, if it is for a good cause.”

At last silence fell again, for She was not finished speaking. “The Rules of this Game shall be thus: First, any ground consecrated unto Me, in any form that I have chosen to reveal Myself, is holy. You may not fight there. Second, only one may engage one other at a time. Third, the body you shall be given will always heal, even from wounds that would be fatal to mortals. And last, you shall receive the powers of the spirits you vanquish into your body. The spirit itself shall return to me, but you will have all the knowledge and power it has gained in life.”

The voices that broke out this time were not hushed, and all seemed excited. A few backed away from the Throne, declaring that mortals were not their study and that they only wished the Presence forever to be happy. These She let go.

But a few thousand remained. Among them were several bondmated pairs, including the two She loved. They were discussing together, and She bent to hear.

“But what if we are the last two?” the wise one exclaimed to his lover. “I will not fight you!”

“But we both wish to go,” said the dark-haired one. “Maybe there is some kind of provision for that.”

She made it up on the spur of the moment, laughing. “Bondmates shall, if they are the last two, rule together,” She said, smiling down upon the little ones.

They sighed with relief, and all who were mated clasped their lovers to their sides.

“Bondmates, though,” She said, “because of their advantage, may experience great difficulty in coming together as lovers in that world of mortals. They may be far-sundered in time or place. Yet, they will find each other, if they seek long enough.”

The spirits smiled. “We must be named, if we are to inhabit the world of mortals,” one of them, longhaired, noble and proud, declared.

“You shall pick your own name,” She answered her.

There was silence for a moment, then a chorus of voices.

“Cassandra,” she said.

“Kronos,” another, fiery and passionate, put in.

“Amanda,” with a capricious laugh.

“Nick,” from the spirit beside her.

“Connor,” reaching a hand out to a mortal woman’s image.

“Silas,” one said, staring at the earthly animals.

“Darius,” staring at the blood mortals spilled.

“Duncan,” the dark-haired one said, drawing the Favored One into his arms.

They declared their names, one by one, but the Favorite remained silent. At last he was the only one left, and all turned to him.

“Love, by what name shall I greet you, down there?” Duncan asked.

He smiled a quiet, sly, smile. “Methos.”

Laughter exploded in the heavens. “Methos!” Cassandra mocked. “Methos means ‘nothing!’ Oh, most humble one, you would have us call you that?”

“I would,” Methos answered, quietly but firmly. “I would.”

And the One approved their choices. “One last word before farewell,” She said. “Down there, I may not answer your pleas, though you beg with tears. In most cases, I will not give aid to you. This is your own fight.”

And on that somber note, they filed out of the courts of heaven down into the skies of earth, forgetting everything they knew of their lives before.

* * *

“So I told Joe that Methos wasn’t actually a legend, he just knew how to hide really well,” Ann Westra, newly appointed Watcher of Richie Ryan, laughed to her friend. “You should have seen Adam get all protective – I swear he thinks the Methos Chronicles are his own personal responsibility.”

“Well, Ann, in a way they are,” the quieter girl answered. “Adam Pierson’s done a lot of work on those old books. He says he may be only a hundred years behind now. Just think, soon we may have a Watcher on the oldest of them ever.”

Ann got a wondering look on her face. “It would be interesting to know where Methos is right now. He must be hiding in Alaska or something.”

“Probably too cold for him,” a voice put in beside them. They both turned to see Adam standing there.

“Speak of the devil,” Ann joked, shaking Adam’s hand. “But really Adam, do you know where he is or are you just playing us for fools?”

Adam pushed away from the counter. “Not telling,” he said, with a characteristic shy smile. “But listen, I kind of need a favor, and I wonder if you can help me.”

“Maybe for a…” Ann started.

“Nope, don’t do information trades,” Adam cut in.

“How about a decent beer?” Ann continued. Adam nodded.

“That I can do.” After a whispered word to the bartender, he spoke again. “Duncan MacLeod. I want a copy of his Chronicles. That’s all. It’s not quite for research purposes, so I can’t request it myself. You could, since you’re going to be Watching…what’s the name again?”

“Richie Ryan,” Ann supplied.

“Right. So that would help me out a lot, really it would.” Adam handed Ann the beer. “Bribery does the trick?”

“It does,” Ann said. “Check your email.”

A brilliant smile lit up Adam’s face. “Thank you very much,” he said. “See you around.”

Ann turned to her friend. “Almost worth the trouble of pulling up MacLeod’s chronicles just to see the look on his face.”

“Yeah,” the other girl nodded, thoughtfully. “Wonder what he wants with MacLeod, though.”

They both shrugged and went back to their conversation.

* * *

Methos sat at his computer late into the night, reading the huge file that Ann had sent him.

“Duncan MacLeod, born in 1592 in the Highlands of Scotland, taught by Connor MacLeod, fought under Bonny Prince Charlie, married a pre-immortal who vanished on their wedding night and is now known as “Faith,” never tried to marry anyone else until Tessa, who died recently."

And the long list of mortals he had loved, battles he had fought in, and his students and friends dragged out until Methos thought he would fall asleep from boredom. “Always-a-cause MacLeod,” he whispered under his breath.

Then sank back in the chair. “Maybe I can turn that to my advantage.”

Methos’ dreams had been strange lately. Not dreams of the past, of ancient sweltering days under the burning sun, but dreams of a time before the past, before Earth.

Dreams of a dark-eyed soul who had pledged eternity to him. Who was even now on earth, waiting, longing.

“Could it be Duncan MacLeod?” Methos pondered. “Could it be?” The man who was beautiful beyond all words, noble, proud, and oh, yes, according to the Chronicle, only liked women.

“If it is you,” Methos whispered to the chronicle, “I beg you, remember who you are. You are mine, from before the dawn of time. Mortals you may play with, but Immortals are off-limits for you.”

As it was, the only Immortals Methos himself had ever had any kind of lasting relationship with had parted from him, and not on good terms. Sitting back in his chair, he remembered the fire that had driven him to live and kill for years.

They called it passion. Drove across the wide aching wilderness for a hundred years and found satisfaction in nothing. Days revealed silent anguish and nights patient torture. The subtle shapes in sand and sky were lost to them, the gentle curve of river just another barrier to cross. And the years dragged on, some swift, some slow.

But they called it passion, the hellfire of sweet revenge, and so they drove onward, sweeping through town and village like wildfire, leaving nothing alive. Until one day, one of them awoke from the long slow sleep of anguished killing, and whispered “is this all there is?”

“We could rule a world,” Methos had written in one of his early journals, “but we had no idea how to govern ourselves.”

Whatever they saw became theirs, except for the hearts of those they plundered. The women gave their bodies, unwilling it is true, but preferring that to death, yet none of them ever truly smiled at any of the Horsemen.

The smoke of their burning could be seen far off as they made camp by night. And eventually that was what destroyed them. For with warning came preparation. There were always some willing to fight rather than to die meekly. After a time, those who wished to fight the Horsemen combined their forces, made an alliance, and attacked the Horsemen’s camp.

The battle was fierce and bloody. The bodies of hundreds lay strewn on the ground after it was over. Three of the Horsemen were captured. Their slaves were set free to loot the camp, like their own villages had been looted.

But Methos was not there. Death slipped away in the early dawning, on horseback, with only a few of his most treasured possessions.

No one discovered this until many years had passed, and Kronos, slipping his own captivity by devious means, came looking for his brother.

Oh, they found each other. How could they not find each other? But Methos was too sly, too quick. They parted again, not fighting with any weapon other than fiery words.

Methos moved on, leaving the Horsemen scattered like ashes in the wind. Kronos did not, hanging on to the memories, the subtle taste of fear and the pleasure in the deaths of mortals.

And then there was the laughing poet Byron, his other Immortal love, mocking the universe.

“We don’t have a purpose, Doc!” the man had laughed. “Dance the night away! Laugh! Drink! Smoke! It’s all you get!”

“It’s not all, Lord Byron,” he had answered. “Not all.”

Byron had laughed then. He had remained on a continual high for over two hundred years now. Methos had better things to do than babysit him.

Like figure out if Duncan MacLeod was the one he sought.

* * *

The changing years had brought separation like the soft winds brushing sand grains high into the sky, tearing lovers apart.

Immortals did not generally interest Methos. They were invariably not to be trusted, and he always found himself on his guard around them. Men were treacherous and women tended to be seductive betrayers.

But mortals were intriguing, for their lives were so short, yet filled with so much passion. They lived with a zest that had gone from Methos’ life with the Horsemen, as if the thousands he had killed had taken all his energy and left him hopeless.

The years had passed with a kind of quiet ache for Methos, living, hiding, learning, studying, ever delving deeper into the hearts of mortals and Immortals, exploring human nature so intensely that at times he would not even feel hunger.

And now at last he had delved into Duncan MacLeod’s Chronicle, and at last the dreams were beginning to make sense.

Methos left his laptop open on the floor to Joe’s last entry about Duncan, and began to write in his journal, slumping back against the edge of the bed.

“The one who appears in my dreams has long dark hair. MacLeod has long dark hair. So do many other Immortals though. But, ruling out the women, for my lover was **not** a woman, the dreams tell me that unmistakably, there are only four others living who might be possible.

I have met all of them, however, and I felt nothing for any of them. I simply did not recognize them. They did not resonate in my soul.

One would expect that I would know someone I had loved in that mysterious place in my dreams. It is none of these others, and MacLeod rings more true than any, though I have not even met him yet."

Methos looked up, out of the window to where the sun was dying over the Seine. “I will, though,” he whispered. “I will.”

* * *

It was almost a year though, and a strange set of circumstances, before that happened.

Methos had done his best to make a friend of Joe, instead of trying to meet the Highlander himself, and had also risen in the Watcher organization to the point where he alone, under Don Salzer, was responsible for the search for Methos.

For the first time in centuries, he allowed himself the luxury of feeling safe.

A dangerous mistake.

“Don is dead, Adam.” Joe’s voice was on the verge of shaking.

Methos drew in a deep breath. His own voice was none too steady as he asked why and how.

“There’s an Immortal psycho on the loose. Name of Kalas,” Joe answered. “He came looking for Don — looking for a man who wasn’t even an active Watcher” — Joe’s voice got very low — “looking for Methos.”

“That means he’s after me,” Methos said. “I’m next on his list.”

“Yes, Adam, as the Methos researcher, you’re the one he will come to find next, I’m sure.” Joe paused for a moment, and Methos could almost see him thinking. “Wait a minute. You know Duncan MacLeod’s here. I could send him to protect you from Kalas. Mac’s been after Kalas for quite a while. Left Seacouver because the guy killed him in front of his girlfriend.”

Methos’ first reaction was one of almost panic. Duncan could find him, expose him to the Watchers, his cover could be blown, and how was Joe to know Duncan was really as much of a good guy as he thought? And Methos didn’t feel quite ready to encounter someone he had only dreamed about.

But it was Duncan MacLeod. And finally a chance to meet.

“Yeah, that’s okay,” Methos answered.

* * *

Methos slid a sword and a gun beside the bed, within easy reach, in case Kalas came after him before Duncan could get there, or in case Duncan proved too troublesome.

“Helplessly innocent,” he cued himself. Maybe Duncan would think he was a brand-new Immortal who had happened to be in the Watchers and had never learned the Rules.

Turning the music up, Methos began writing in his journal to pass the time.

“I suppose my feelings could be likened to that of a teenager about to meet a blind date for the first time. I mean, here I am, about to meet MacLeod, who all the signs say is destined for some kind of strange entwined fate with me — and I am literally quivering in place. It’s been a long time since I felt so alive.”

About an hour later, a strong Presence rang through Methos’ body, alerting him to the arrival of either Duncan or Kalas. Simultaneous with that, a spark of recognition went through him, for his soul knew that Quickening.

“It’s MacLeod,” he whispered.

And almost immediately the man himself appeared.

Methos got lost in staring at him, for just a moment. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he said, letting the name roll off his tongue for the first time in full. Strangely enough, every bit of nervousness had vanished and Methos only felt exultation to see the one he had dreamed of for so many nights.

Almost as though he had planned it, Methos grabbed a beer from off the floor. “Have a beer,” he said, and hefted it toward the Highlander. “Mi casa es su casa.” He wasn’t able to resist at least a hint.

Duncan caught the can of beer, stared at it, then back at Methos for a moment.

“Methos,” he said finally, and it was not a question.

Methos nodded, and their eyes met.

Time slid to a slow halt as they looked at each other. It was as though the pieces of the puzzle fell into place at last, and the mysteries of the years were laid bare.

And for a flash of what couldn’t be called Time, they were spirits again, laughing in Paradise, finding each other, pledging hearts and hands to each other in love forever.

For a moment only. Methos fell back into his body with a jolt. Duncan looked dazed and a little confused.

“Who are you?” he whispered, extending a hand to help Methos up from the floor. When their fingers touched, it was as though stars shot through Duncan’s hand to Methos’, lightning crackling from the tips of their fingers. The chemistry was so thick it could have been cut with a knife. They, being men, attempted to ignore it, and let go of each other, both breathing hard and trying not to show it.

Resisting the urge to say ‘yours’, Methos took a breath. “I am Methos, that is all,” he said.

* * *

The world had tilted, swinging dizzy on its axis, when Duncan met Methos. The rest of the afternoon went by in a dreamy haze for Methos, a slow recognition sinking deeper into his soul with every word the Highlander said to him. They walked along the river and talked like they had known each other forever, smiles and words sparking together like dry wood.

When they finally parted, late that afternoon, Methos was half-wary. Surely there would be danger waiting for him. Nevertheless, he let Duncan go and stepped onto the sidewalk near his apartment, almost immediately feeling the buzz.

His preparation wasn’t enough. Kalas was good, very good. But a frantic desire to live, even if it was just to see Duncan again, took hold of Methos, and he struggled over the bridge and into the river.

He washed up about a mile downstream, Kalas nowhere within reach, feeling like a drowned rat, and more panicked than he had been in years.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “Unless maybe…”

And Methos found himself running upstream, sword tucked away in his coat.

He was prepared to die, if he could save Duncan MacLeod.

He hadn’t calculated that it would be physically extremely difficult to fight Duncan. There was a weary drain to his footsteps when their swords clashed under the bridge. And Duncan was more than uncooperative, to say the least.

“I know he feels it too,” Methos thought. “At least I know we are bound.” Picking up Duncan’s sword hand and bringing it to his neck, Methos stood silent in the cold night, both sacrificing for Duncan and testing Duncan.

“I cannot,” Duncan whispered after a long pause, sword wavering against Methos’ neck. “There’s something more to all this…what game are you playing, Methos?”

Methos looked up, and there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Remains to be seen,” he said.

He moved closer to Duncan and gave as much of a hint as he could. “Whether you kill me or whether you don’t,” he said, “I’ll be part of you forever.”

“I know,” Duncan answered, letting the sword fall. Their lips met, in silence, in a kiss that would have been perfectly normal in Alexander’s time, but was a wonder in the twentieth century. It wasn’t quite romantic, just the sealing of some kind of pact. Or some kind of bond. Chemistry hummed low between them, and they broke apart as silently as they had come together, each disappearing into the evening without a word.

* * *

They did not acknowledge the kiss when they next met, but the breathlessness of meeting Duncan MacLeod was still in Methos’ voice as he gave the command to take Kalas away and then spoke briefly with Duncan, behind the edge of the building.

“Why?” Duncan asked, for the second time that day.

“Live, Highlander,” Methos said, quietly, like a blessing. “Grow stronger. Fight another day.”

And for the first time in years, he did not regret saying those words.

Back when the Horsemen ruled, Silas was fond of repeating that Methosian proverb as though it were purest gospel. Whenever they lost a village, which wasn’t often, he would say it over and over.

Methos had grown tired of the words. But they remained useful, for they were a code to live by.

Hide and wait.

Unfortunately, the death of Don Salzer had more effects than Methos first thought. And for a while he thought hiding was going to have to be necessary, not just an option.

At least it meant seeing Duncan MacLeod again. This time taking a tentative step onto the Highlander’s turf, seeing that they remembered each other, and that the chemistry was still as strong as it had been — time had not diminished it.

And time, Methos vowed, would only make it stronger.

* * *

She had watched them since they had wandered out onto the human stage, observing who was worthy to live and who deserved death. The Immortals, constrained by human bodies, were growing darker and darker with the passing years. Some even dared to kill in ways that were against the Rules. Some bent the Rules to justify their own lust for Quickening power.

But would Methos, one of the ones prophesied to live, stand the test of love she was about to put him to?

Donning the garments of a mortal woman and assuming the life, for a brief time, of a beautiful, delicately formed, dying woman, She made her way to Joe’s and filled out a job application.

Her mission was simple. Do not interfere, but test Methos. See if he truly had a heart for humanity or if he was as cold as the winds in the high desert night.

At first she was disappointed in him. Her excited words about a world of beauty were met with cynicism. Miffed, she turned down his advances flatly, several times. However, he was very interested, she could tell. Was it the air of fragility she wore like a jewel, or was it simply the sense of joy in life that she imbued into everything? Alexa, late the Goddess, wore laughter like a robe. Perhaps it was her simple familiarity that attracted Methos to her, his unconscious memory of the Goddess from before time.

In any case, she proved him true. Became more than a Watcher to him, for she recorded every thought of his deep in her mind, observing the way he protected her, loved her, cared for her, and did the same with many friends of his they met on the journey through Europe.

But the deepest focus of his heart and soul was with MacLeod. There was not even a question that he would go to MacLeod in trouble, in spite of Alexa’s impending death. And the Stone was the deep desperate reaching of a man whose heart was going to be broken yet again, but it was never his destiny to place it around her neck.

She knew this, and watched, and almost grieved that she had to die. And when she left the fragile body she had lived in, she mourned with him. That night snow fell in Europe, covering the world in cold.

* * *

Eventually Methos found his strength. He had loved Alexa, true, with the deep passion that only is known to those who have loved and lost a thousand times. Yet, he loved Duncan with a love far deeper, a love that would give even eternity, if Duncan could be safe and happy.

And so for several months, Methos did nothing but dance around Duncan with his presence, making himself the Highlander’s protector and thorn in the side.

It was a shock out of the cold arching night when the blade came whistling through the air, sinking deep into Methos’ breast. But the greater shock was seeing Kronos’ face again.

For a short time, the Methos that wanted to be with Duncan MacLeod forever slipped into the background, replaced by the Methos that wanted to see the Highlander safe at all costs, even his own death.

And there was Cassandra to deal with. The woman had never reflected, Methos thought, that perhaps he had been as much a tool of Kronos as she had been his slave. Kronos was almost like an abusive father, and they two could have been like siblings conspiring against him in secret, keeping him happy but plotting behind closed doors. But Cassandra would have none of it.

So he and MacLeod were estranged, a wedge driven deep into their friendship, by the woman both of them had loved, once upon a time. And possibly it was that which led to the terrifying events of a month later.

* * *

Demons. It sounded like the ancient tales Methos had heard around the fire before writing was invented. “You can stop him, you alone.”

And it was all almost silly, almost unbelievable, until Duncan said that he had seen Kronos.

“Isn’t it over, then?” Methos had whispered to himself. “Or are we just all going crazy?”

In the face of a friend gone mad, first with visions, then with grief, Methos could only stand and watch. In five thousand years, he had never felt so helpless.

“I thought I’d seen everything,” Methos said, standing with Joe over Richie’s body and Duncan’s abandoned katana.

“We could never have seen this coming,” Joe answered.

“What’s next?” Methos asked. “Him trying to kill you? Or me?”

Deep in his heart he knew it would be physically impossible for Duncan to kill him, yet that didn’t rule out the possibility of danger being near MacLeod.

And suddenly the wild urge to be free, rid of all this grief and horror and sorrow, swept over Methos. Desperate, he trembled with the fight to stay still, holding Joe, and not run to the ends of the earth.

“Come, let’s bury Richie,” Methos said after a long moment.

Joe looked silently up at Methos and nodded.

Deep in the woods they lay Richie’s body to rest. They worked in silence, sorrow eating at them.

“Go somewhere safe, Joe,” Methos said afterward in the car. “Promise me. The…demon…could use you against Duncan.”

Joe nodded. “You do the same, Methos.”

“Believe me, I intend to,” Methos answered.

And he did.

* * *

The desperate hunger of a lost love was eating at Methos from the inside out, yet he would not seek Duncan MacLeod out again. For Duncan was dangerous to be around, dangerous to love. Methos remembered an old prophecy Duncan had told him about once. “You will always be alone.”

For both their sakes, Methos hoped it was a lie.

Wary as he was, he was still unprepared when the demon came to visit him, deep in the mountains of Tibet, hiding in a refuge he had owned since almost before land was bought and sold.

Methos had only known of Horton, had never actually met him, so he was taken unaware when the strange man climbing up into the mountains stopped, ostensibly for a drink, at Methos’ cabin.

Slightly suspicious even so, Methos kept a sword within reach.

“Good day, traveler,” he said, tugging at the sleeves of his longcoat, looking innocent.

“Is it?” the other man returned, frowning.

“The sun is shining, and I have beer,” Methos answered, smiling, but on his guard. “Of course it’s a good day.”

There was no Immortal buzz as the stranger came closer, but Methos still was suspicious. “What brings you here?” he went on.

“Just a rumor,” the stranger said, close now. “Duncan MacLeod is going to kill you.”

Methos laughed, at the same time placing a hand on his sword. “Oh yes? What makes you think he can?”

“Because you love him.” Horton suddenly pulled out his own sword, springing at Methos, who jumped back, startled. “Because you’re weak, Methos.”

And with those words, it was not Horton who stood there, but Kronos, in full battle gear, laughing coldly at him. “Weak, brother? Tired? Or maybe you want to make love to me before you die?”

“Never!” Methos spat out, and pulled out his own sword, just in self-defense.

More of Kronos’ cold laughter. “So you do love him! How sweet! Have you two lovebirds pledged vows yet?” At Methos’ shake of the head, Kronos grinned. “He doesn’t love you, you know. He hates you, because of me.”

“Not true,” Methos said, quietly. “Not true at all.”

“Oh yes?” Kronos’ laughter faded, and Richie stood there, smiling viciously.

“You haven’t begun to fight yet, Old Man.”

“You’re a demon,” Methos said. “I don’t fight demons. I ignore them.”

“The policy of neutrality doesn’t work any longer!” Richie sprang at Methos, who pushed him away with his hands, noting as he did so that Richie’s body certainly felt very real under his fingers.

“Go away, kid,” Methos muttered. “Send back Kronos. Give me someone I won’t feel guilty about killing again.”

“I don’t think so.” It was Richie’s voice that spoke, but as Methos looked over toward the demon, it vanished and Duncan appeared, naked to the waist, looking exhausted.

“It’s a trick,” Methos said, not fooled.

The vision of Duncan did not appear to notice Methos for a while, but looked down, deep in thought.

“Methos,” the voice at last was thoughtful, almost as though Duncan had been saying his name over and over as a mantra.

Methos was silent; Duncan did not look up.

“You’re so far away, Methos.” At Duncan’s words, Methos simply shook his head, not in denial, but in exasperation.

“We’ve only kissed once, Methos,” Duncan’s voice was low and melodic, the trembling voice of a hesitant lover.

“Go back to your monastery, Duncan,” Methos said. “We won’t be doing any more kissing, either, until you and I both know who we are to each other.”

Methos sat down on the bench outside the door of his cabin, waiting in silence for a long time.

At last Duncan looked up, almost surprised to see Methos sitting there.

“You can’t fight demons with swords, MacLeod,” Methos said quietly. “That will not ultimately defeat them. The demon you really have to beat is the one inside yourself.” Methos took a breath; he couldn’t be sure that this was really Duncan, but it was his appearance, and Methos was finally getting a chance to say some things he had wanted to say for a long time. “I’ve dealt with my demons. Even without Kronos dead, he had been defeated. I know who I am. Now it’s time for you to discover the same of yourself, and of me, eventually.”

Getting up, Methos disappeared into his cabin, laying his sword down and collapsing onto his bed for a midday nap. There was perfect silence outside.

Much later in the day, when Methos came out of the cabin to watch the sunset, no visions, of Duncan or anyone else, disturbed the peaceful atmosphere.

* * *

It was a simple thing that brought Methos and Duncan back together at last. After the death of Jacob Kell, Methos and Joe came carefully out onto the roof. They had watched the intense Quickening from the car, and both were hoping that Duncan was really all right, that it hadn’t been a Dark Quickening again.

Duncan lay senseless on the ground when they found him, clutching his sword. Together they carried him down to the car, and Joe drove away. Methos sat in the back seat with Duncan’s head on his lap.

Duncan looked so young like this, with his hair shorn, eyes shut in unconsciousness, trying to process the Quickening.

When he woke up at last, it was to Methos stroking his hair and smiling down at him.

“Come home with me?” Methos sounded almost shy.

Duncan nodded wearily and shut his eyes again.

Joe drove them to Methos’ home on the outskirts of New York. Duncan managed to walk inside under his own power, with Methos half holding him up. Joe waved goodbye from the car and drove off.

Inside, they suddenly found they were a bit shy of each other, both wary.

“Is everything all right?” Methos caught himself asking.

“Yes,” Duncan answered, and Methos knew Duncan meant “as well as could be expected.”

Methos gave a half-smile. “Good. You should have a shower.”

Duncan wasn’t about to disagree.

* * *

Methos woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, in the darkest hour just before dawn. It sounded like Duncan was screaming, but inside Methos knew it was a nightmare, and that he had to go comfort his terrified friend.

“Duncan, Duncan,” he whispered, once he had reached the guest room. “Duncan, it’s okay. It’s a dream, Duncan, it can’t hurt you.”

He found that he was stroking the Highlander’s hair again, and sat down on the bed beside the sleeping man to take further advantage of the opportunity.

Duncan stopped making restless noises and began to sleep more peacefully. Methos stretched out on the bed beside him, on top of the covers, a hand in his beloved’s hair.

Gently they both drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

Methos shifted in the early dawning, feeling a light buzz tickle against his spine, and a feeling of complete well-being suffusing his body. The heart of his heart was next to him and the world was perfect.

In the night, Duncan had snuggled up to him, unconsciously seeking out the warmth and comfort of his friend.

It would have felt strange for any other two men who had not confessed their love to be sleeping together like that, but not Duncan and Methos. Not to Methos in any case.

“Duncan,” he whispered, letting a hand stroke over his hair again. “Duncan.”

And Duncan slid into wakefulness, eyes opening lazily.

“Methos,” he said, looking a little confused. “I killed Kell?”

“Yes,” Methos answered. “The Quickening was so strong it knocked you out. You were pretty unsteady on your feet last night.”

Duncan nodded. “Yes, I kind of remember.”

“You were having nightmares,” Methos said almost shyly, trying to explain his presence in Duncan’s bed. “When I came in and stroked your hair you got quiet again.”

“Oh, I see.” Duncan looked almost disappointed.

Methos sat up. “Think you can go back to sleep without me, Highlander?”

Duncan panicked as Methos started to move off the bed. “You don’t have to…” he gasped out.

Methos smiled. “If that’s what you want.”

Duncan pulled the blankets back. “Just get in, Methos. I don’t know why I need you here, but I **really** don’t want any more nightmares.”

Methos obliged. He was wearing only boxers, his customary sleep garment. Duncan was, oddly enough, only wearing white briefs. Methos glanced significantly at the Highlander.

“Always wanted to know, Mac.”

Duncan rolled his eyes.

Strangely enough, now that they were in bed together, they found sleep eluding them. Methos’ desire for sleep was fading fast into just plain simple desire, and the way the front of Duncan’s briefs were filling out was proof positive that the Highlander was beginning to feel the same way.

Sighing, Duncan reached out a hand and pulled Methos closer to him. The bare skin of Methos’ arm felt like it was on fire where Duncan had touched. Methos was sure his blush could have lit beacons in Tibet.

Methos caught his breath, struggling against the desire to just cover the Highlander with his own body. Instead he simply snuggled in closer.

“Do you know,” Duncan said dreamily, “that I saw a vision of you once, after…the events with the demon, when I was in that monastery?”

“Did you?” Methos asked. “What was the vision?”

“I dreamed you told me that you’d dealt with your demons, and not with swords.” Duncan’s eyes were large and wondering.

“I have,” Methos said. “And you would be surprised at the kinds of things two people as close as we are will see. Any more questions?”

“Yes. I was wondering,” Duncan began, “why you offered your head to me on the day we met? How did you know I wouldn’t take it?”

Methos could only speak the truth. “I didn’t.” He paused for a long moment. “Now I know you couldn’t have taken it, just as I can’t take yours.”

“Why?” Duncan asked.

Methos was at a loss for words. “Because…” he began, then stopped for a moment, thinking. “Remember when you told me that you would have taken my head in your dream a couple of years ago, and that was a world without Duncan MacLeod in it?”

“Yes,” Duncan said, not sure where this was going.

“In a world without Duncan MacLeod,” Methos paused, “I would only be half of a soul, missing my partner. It’s no wonder I would have been quite an SOB. It’s because of you, trying to find you, getting to know you…” he paused again, “falling in love with you, that I can be who I was meant to be.”

“You-you’re in love with me?” Duncan sounded only curious, and he did not move away like Methos had expected.

“Yeah,” Methos said. “And I believe you’re in love with me, too, a little bit.”

Duncan laughed. “Would that be why you can drive me half crazy with just a look?”

“Mmmm, well maybe it’s time for me to stop looking and start acting,” Methos said, hand snaking around Duncan’s neck. Their lips met.

In the fumbling ecstasy of their first real kiss, they found time standing still again. The silence was broken only by their smothered gasps and the echoes of birdsong outside the window.

“Love you,” Duncan whispered after an impossibly long kiss, fingers curving over the fine bones of Methos’ face. Methos nuzzled into the touch, tangling his legs with Duncan’s and throwing his arms around the Highlander.

They lay petting for several minutes, whispering words of fulfilled longing and desperate devotion to each other, both almost content to simply lie in each other’s arms until the end of time. Methos relished the feel of Duncan’s weight against him, solid and real, no daydream or demon.

“How I wish we could have been here sooner,” Methos whispered, referring, of course, to their tangled bodies and minds.

Duncan’s hands curved against Methos’ face, fingers against his temple. “Ah, but then it might not have been as sweet,” he answered.

Duncan began dotting tiny kisses over Methos’ face, worshiping the fine cheekbones, the liquid dark eyes that stared up at him lost in ecstasy, the gentle curve of jaw, the surprisingly soft hair, the beautiful nose. At last Methos caught Duncan’s mouth with his own, driving them down together into a kiss that left them panting against each other.

“Body and soul, Highlander, we shall be knit,” Methos said, his hand stroking over Duncan’s hair, tangling his fingers through it.

For a moment they broke apart to remove their underwear, then Duncan reached out for Methos again.

Finally completely skin to skin and it was like coming home. There was gentle fire as they touched each other initially, and tiny sparks of Quickening were shared between them.

The warmth of Duncan’s skin against his was like being next to a star, Methos thought, and wondered how he knew what stars felt like.

Waves of shivers broke out over Duncan’s skin as he touched Methos. Nothing in all worlds had felt like this before.

There was no need for anything complicated, indeed it would have broken the spell. Just Methos’ fingers, then cock, twisting into Duncan with the rightness of a long-time lover, their bodies moving together in the same dance that time before time had witnessed.

Orgasm broke over them slow, gathering with the force of a wave that tumbled them into ecstasy, smiling into each other’s eyes.

* * *

In the end, the Gathering was really quite simple. Hide and wait had been the motto of Methos and Duncan during most of it, and they were not found in their Alaskan hideout until the very end. While Immortals warred around them, they stayed snug in the depths of the wilderness. Also strangely, they felt no desire to challenge each other — they were too deeply bound for that.

And the Immortal who came last to hunt them out was Stephen Keane. He chose to challenge Methos.

“Do you want to rule the world?” Methos asked casually, while they were exchanging the first blows.

Keane did not answer, only fought harder.

“Do you think you **can** rule the world?” Methos went on after a moment. “Lately, I’ve made my money in stocks. I can do this because I **know** people. I know how they’ll react, where they’ll go, what they’ll do. Can you say the same?”

“I believe I’m a basically good person.” Keane’s words were hesitant, and he was struggling to block Methos’ blows.

Methos snorted. “Goodness won’t get you far when you deal with mortals.” The sword came down in a swift slash to one side, and another sword came out from Methos’ coat. “Or Immortals.”

He struck, hard, with the second sword. For a moment Keane’s betrayed eyes were staring at him, then the head fell to the ground.

There was a dull thump as Methos sank to his knees, and Duncan rushed over from his vantage point. Just before the lightning gathered, Duncan pulled Methos into his arms.

They rode out the Quickening storm together, lightning, fire, water, thunder, exploding into, over, and around their bodies. Their bodies tangled together, snow and fire; they could feel each other’s heartbeat in the darkness when it was all over.

And they were One, remembering the long-ago days of their heavenly youth, finally seeing all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

“Always loved you,” Duncan whispered.

Methos kissed him, their mouths meeting as sparks of Quickening fire flew between them. The snow was wet underneath them, but they forgot it existed.

Light streamed from their bodies, and suddenly they realized they were no longer in the Alaskan wilderness, but standing in halls of stone, polished with light. Before them stood a young woman, the very image of Alexa, but with ancient wisdom in her eyes as she regarded Duncan and Methos. Methos sank back to his knees, but she pulled him to his feet with a look.

“Your eyes are like diamonds, you see in the darkness and make it light,” the ancient woman said, bowing before Duncan and Methos. “You are the Chosen Ones.” She turned to Duncan. “You, the Solstice Child, the Savior, the Warrior, the Defender of the Just.” And to Methos. “You, the Heart of Man, the Human Soul, the Reason, the Knowledge, the Power. Together you balance the universe. Together you may rule.”

There was silence as the two bowed their heads in acceptance. And the stars spun around them again for a moment, the wind whistling in their ears.

They were back in Methos’ New York home, standing on the front steps, as a crowd of thousands gathered in what seemed like just a few moments. The great mortals of the world stood waiting for their commands. Duncan and Methos stood before them hand in hand, suffused with a golden glow, vibrant and royal.

They were beautiful, eternal, powerful. Methos and Duncan were the Rulers. Now and forever.


End file.
